


Toolie Oolie Doolie

by notlucy



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cabins, Cheapskate Steve Rogers, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Innuendo, Married Couple, Peggy Carter abides, Post-War, Steggy Secret Santa, Vacation, Winter, and enjoys, chopping wood, the great outdoors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 00:56:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17172791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notlucy/pseuds/notlucy
Summary: Steve surprises Peggy with a mid-winter holiday. Peggy responds in kind.





	Toolie Oolie Doolie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GatorJen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GatorJen/gifts).



 

_When a fella meets a girl in Switzerland_  
_There's a certain thing he's gotta do_  
_He can never, never take her by the hand_  
_Till he learns to toolie oolie doo_

 

Most of the time, Peggy adored her husband. On other occasions, she endured him.

Standing at his side whilst listening to him bicker with the man behind the rental counter holding the keys to their holiday home? That sat squarely in the latter category.

Which wasn't to say there hadn't been prior adoration. There had been plenty to go around earlier that day when Steve sprang the trip on her as a post-Christmas surprise—the two of them spending a week in a cosy cabin upstate, meant to drum her out of the winter doldrums, which had set in soon after their second Christmas as a married couple had come and gone. He'd planned it all without her knowledge, even going so far as to secure time off with Chief Dooley on her behalf.

Touched by the gesture, Peggy had given him approximately seventy-five kisses as they piled into the ramshackle wreck he’d borrowed from an old friend of his mother’s and headed out of the city.

After nearly three and a half hours of Steve’s particular brand of madcap idiocy behind the wheel, however, she had been feeling decidedly _less_ generous towards him. Then, upon his revealing that the cabins in question were equipped with neither running water nor indoor plumbing? Her goodwill had evaporated entirely. Steve’s thriftiness, it seemed, extended into every facet of their lives. Peggy was unamused. She’d had quite enough of that sort of thing during the war, and having a holiday in a place that boasted _fewer_ amenities than their modest third-floor walk-up in Brooklyn did not in any way appeal.

When she'd told Steve as much, he'd protested that once they got a fire going, they wouldn't need anything but a warm bed and one another. She'd replied with something snippy about showering before marching straight into the rental office to collect their keys.

Which was, of course, where things had unravelled nearly to Peggy's breaking point. The argument Steve was having with the proprietor of the establishment—Charlie, according to the sign on his counter—was over firewood. The cabins, naturally, were unheated, and being as it was the middle of winter, Steve had assumed that firewood would be complimentary.

He had assumed wrong. As it happened, the _logs_ were on premises, but having them split and stacked into proper firewood was an additional (exorbitant) charge.

Steve had refused to pay on principle, and now there he stood: stubborn and red-cheeked, arms folded across his broad chest.

“You’re chargin’ _how_ much to chop the wood?” he repeated, nostrils flaring with such contempt that Peggy nearly smiled in spite of her sour mood.

“Twenty bucks, and I’ll have Merve up there in an hour to split enough for the week.”

It was highway robbery, and all three of them knew it. All the same, Peggy didn't fancy freezing. "Steve—" she began, because she had a bit of money left over from Christmas.

“No,” Steve said, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

“ _Steve_ ,” she repeated, trodding neatly on his toes.

“You could always rent an axe,” Charlie countered. “See about splitting it yourself.”

A vein in Steve’s temple throbbed, and Peggy could just about see Charlie’s grift—send some hapless sod away with an axe to grind, both literal and figurative, only to have him turn back up hours later, sore and shame-faced to pay the twenty dollars for a professional.

Peggy’s hapless sod, however, was more than capable, so she smiled and stepped forward. “How much for the axe?”

“Four bucks for the week.”

“You must think I’m some sorta—” Steve started.

“We’ll take it,” she said firmly, opening her purse before Steve could lodge any further complaints.

 

* * *

 

Four dollars poorer, with an axe that had seen better days slung over Steve’s shoulder, the two of them made their way back to the car. Steve was still muttering about monkey business, and while Peggy didn’t disagree, she also didn’t think it prudent to point out that renting the _cheapest_ cabin in New York state would inevitably lead one to be nibbled to death by ducks.

Steve tossed the axe atop their luggage before getting back behind the wheel with such a choleric frown on his face that Peggy was reminded of why she liked him so much—all that vinegar and brine coupled with surprising sweetness. It made it challenging to stay stroppy with him for long. As he pulled out onto the dirt road that led to the lodging, she scooted across the seat and dropped her hand to his knee.

The road was winding, each cabin separated from the next by a good swath of forest. It was private if nothing else, and for that Peggy was grateful. Their particular cabin—4A—was towards the end, around a curve and down a small slope.

When she saw it, Peggy counted to three in her head and endeavoured to make the best of a bad lot. Steve _had_ meant well with the surprise, and her initial annoyance had begun to fade with time. 

“Oh, isn’t it...pretty,” she offered, which was being rather generous. The cabin looked like something out of the last century, hewn together from notched logs and chinking that might once have been solid, but was now crumbling in places. A sagging porch ran across the front, dipping alarmingly at both ends and reminding her somewhat of an old, droopy hound dog. There were two cracked panes of glass in the only front-facing window, and she could just about anticipate how drafty it would be inside. Thank Christ for all her cosy jumpers and woollen socks; she could only hope Steve had packed as judiciously, considering she staunchly refused to do the job for him.

“Looked better in the brochure,” Steve grumped as he drew the car to a shuddering stop.

“Do cheer up, Eeyore,” she said, squeezing his thigh. “We’re on our holidays.”

Steve harrumphed once before turning towards her for a kiss, the beginnings of a smile creeping onto his face. “Eeyore’s the donkey?”

“Mmm. Rather a morose one as well, but you’re _much_ more of a stubborn arse.”

“I—hey!”

Peggy was halfway out the door before he had the chance to process the insult, scooting round to the boot and popping it open so they could haul their suitcases inside. That was to say: Steve could haul them, both bags and their various provisions hardly anything to him as he strode towards the sagging porch, long-legged and golden. Sculpted from clay, that one, and she knew it was the truth, being as she'd been well-acquainted with the man wielding the chisel.

(Not that she wouldn’t have married Steve at ninety pounds soaking wet, but she did appreciate his ability to carry her to bed one-armed.)

The cabin's lock gave way with an alarming, rusty shriek as Peggy turned the key. Any hopes she'd harboured for the outward appearance of the place being deceiving were dashed upon pushing open the door and peering inside. A single room—kitchenette in one corner and a bed in another, with a sofa that looked held together with three nailheads and a prayer sitting in the middle. There was an air of neglect about the entire room, with every surface covered in a fine coating of dust and grime, All that, and it was utterly chockablock with tat, from fusty old motheaten blankets to an alarmingly bright-eyed deer head mounted above the soot-blackened fireplace.

“God,” she said, as Steve dropped the bags onto the floor with a sigh of defeat. “Can’t say I fancy him watching.”

“Who?”

“Bambi.”

“Wha—”

Pulling a blanket from the back of the sofa, she tossed it to Steve with a smile. “Do cover the deer, dear.”

“Oh, _Bambi_ ," he realised, walking towards the fireplace and arranging the blanket over poor Bambino's taxidermied remains.

“I think he’s been through enough, don’t you?”

“Aw, I dunno, honey—we put on quite the show…” As if to illustrate his point, he took a step closer and waggled his eyebrows in a manner befitting a Marx brother.

“No,” Peggy laughed, scooting out of his reach. “Not until I’ve unpacked. You’d best go start on the woodpile.”

After all, they’d spent four dollars on the axe. 

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later found Peggy giving the kitchen counter a thorough wipe down with the vinegar and water solution she’d scavenged from the scant cleaning supplies in a creaky old cupboard. Through her efforts, she’d turned the cabin from grimy to bog-standard. Not much of an improvement, all told, but it would have to do. She’d forgotten how much work a pump sink required, but there was a certain pride taken in what she’d accomplished despite the lack of indoor plumbing. She might kill Steve over the outhouse before the week was through, but at least she’d be able to wash her face in the morning.

Her work had been punctuated by an occasional thud from outside, so she could only surmise that Steve had found the woodpile. Drying her hands on her trousers, she went to check on him, stepping out the front door and following the sound of his labours.

And what labours they were! When she came upon him, she hid behind the corner of the cabin, watching as he took a log and placed it upon a stump, lining himself up and swinging the axe overhead. When he brought it down, the wood split cleanly in two, each half falling to the side as Steve wiped his brow. The effort had warmed him, apparently, and he'd taken off his coat. Peggy didn't mind the view—hard muscles straining such that his entire body became part of the swing, shoulders to thighs. (Not to mention his arse, which flexed as he finished and made her finger itch to give it a pinch. She _was_ only human.)

“Ten out of ten!” she called, once she was sure the swing had been completed, not wanting to be the cause of an inadvertently severed toe.

Steve jumped at her voice, turning to find her as she revealed herself. Grinning, he pointed proudly to the pile of logs he’d already split. “Not bad, huh?”

“Yes, you’re very strong,” she teased, taking a few steps nearer.

“You think that’s enough?”

“Not by half,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “I’d see you double that, soldier.”

Surveying the pile—which was more than enough to keep the cabin cosy for a week—Steve raised an eyebrow. “Peg…”

“I’m not in the habit of having my orders questioned, Captain,” she replied with some authority. This had the desired result of setting Steve’s ears flaming, along with his cheeks and a good portion of his neck.

“Aw, hey—” he said, her favourite dopey grin spreading across his face. “If you uh, say so, ma’am.”

“I certainly do.”

Still with that sheepish smile, Steve went back to work, clearing the just-split log before fetching a new one. Peggy, content to supervise, leaned against the side of the cabin, watching as he split one log, then another, then another after that. In between each, he would cut his eyes to her, seeking her approval, which she gave sparingly. The air between them was charged, as it often was when they played this game, made all the more evident by the tent evident in Steve's trousers by the time the seventh log was split.

“Show me,” Peggy said, her voice having gone a bit hoarse.

Steve looked at her, cheeks pink and eyes bright, confusion writ large on his features. “Ma’am?”

“Show me how,” she clarified, stepping towards him and reaching for the axe.

It took Steve a moment to catch her meaning, during which time Peggy positioned herself between him and the stump. When he realised, he let slip an "oh!" along with a laugh before straightening behind her, hard length flush against her backside as she nestled herself against his body.

“So you uh....you wanna choke up on the neck,” he said, taking hold of the axe with her and sliding their right hands up together, then guiding her slowly through a swing. They missed the log by at least two inches. “Alright, so we missed because we’re not close enough…”

Peggy rolled her hips. “Aren’t we?”

“To the stump! If you’d uh...maybe you could take a couple steps forward there?”

Doing as she was told, Peggy took two small steps towards the stump, making sure to bow her spine when Steve moved to meet her, a muttered “Christ” escaping him at the renewed contact.

“Close enough for you, Captain?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, the warmth of his breath against her temple sending a shiver down her spine. “So this time, when we swing, you’re gonna slide your hand down the shaft with the movement.”

“Slide down the shaft,” Peggy agreed, pointedly shifting her position once more.

“Honey…” Steve choked out, voice tremulous as his grip tightened against hers.

“Up the shaft and down the shaft,” she reiterated. “Tell me, is it a _vigorous_ movement, or more measured and precise?”

“It’s…” Steve blew out a breath, placing a kiss to the curve of her ear. “Every time you swing, you gotta...put some impact behind it. That’s what the uh...movement is for.”

“Impact. I suppose that _is_ why one would stroke the shaft.”

“God damn it,” Steve muttered, starting to laugh. “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously, ma’am.”

“That’s impertinence, soldier.”

“I got a bit of that,” he agreed, left hand leaving the axe and coming to rest on her stomach, where he pressed their bodies tighter together. “Feelin’ _real_ impertinent, if you catch my meaning.”

“So it would seem,” she said, lifting her hand from the axe as well, reaching back to slide it between them, where she cupped his hardness and gave him a squeeze. This resulted in a predictable groan and a jerk of his hips. God, but she’d never grow tired of that—making him want her. Having that _power_ over him. Knowing he could lay waste to a hundred men and yet would fall to his knees and worship her simply because she asked him to. “Such a lovely boy.”

A shuddery sigh escaped him at the praise, as she'd known it would, and she smiled to herself before turning to kiss him properly while the axe clattered to the ground. Keeping her right hand where it was, she wrapped the left around his neck and deepened the embrace. Steve, the darling, had virtually no self-control when it came to pleasure and was already hitching his prick against her palm, desperately chasing any friction he could find. Feeling quite generous, Peggy popped the button on his trousers and drew down the zip in order to take hold of the situation properly.

“Fuck, Peg,” he muttered, no doubt finding the frigid mountain air a stark contrast to the warmth of her hand as she began to stroke him with a brisk, purposeful intensity.

After two years of marriage, along with a few dalliances during the war, Peggy knew him inside and out. This man— _her_ man—with his peculiarities and his proclivities. Intimacy with Steve was both a marathon and a sprint. He orgasmed early, with little provocation, but he also orgasmed often, meaning that once they got started, things could carry on for quite some time. It had taken getting used to, his neediness and seemingly endless stamina, but Peggy had come to thoroughly enjoy the endurance sport that was their sex life.

“There you go,” she murmured against his mouth a few minutes later, the gentle provocation drawing a whine as she rubbed what moisture had gathered at the head of his prick onto the shaft. “Come on, darling. First one’s the easy one, yes?”

“Shit— _shit_ ,” he stammered. What he lacked in elegance he made up for in sheer, unbridled enthusiasm, shooting forth seconds after his exclamation, staining Peggy’s trousers and—damn—coat. Ah well, one for the wash. 

“Well done,” she said when he’d finished, kissing him lightly as his forehead came to rest against hers. “Up and down the shaft for impact, was it?”

“Somethin’ like that, bub,” he said, cheeks stained crimson, grinning his schoolboy’s grin. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, fella,” she replied in her best approximation of his accent, tucking him back into his trousers as delicately as she could manage, before wiping her hand on his shirt. “Think you might manage to come inside and build me a fire?”

“I just might.”

“Wonderful. And then, I believe a bit of turnabout might be fair play, don’t you?”

 “Uh, yes, ma’am.”

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, the cabin wasn’t so bad. Or, at least, Peggy found the company very pleasant. In spite of the outhouse.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the Steggy Secret Santa 2018 as a gift for GatorJen. Happy holidays, I hope you enjoyed!
> 
>  _Toolie Oolie Doolie_ is a song released by the Andrews Sisters round about the time this story is set - gotta love those '40s-style innuendos! Thank you to [awwtopsy](https://awwtopsy.tumblr.com) for quick and thorough beta work.


End file.
